TED: An Extreme Horror SHORT STORY

by Matt Shaw

  “What the Hell?”

  I looked down and noticed she was pissing over me.

  “What the fuck is this, you dirty cunt?”

  I glanced to her head and realised she was still face down on the mattress and hadn’t moved from where she’d landed after the punch.

  “Oi.”

  She didn’t answer me.

  “Hooker.”

  Fuck, what was her name?

  “You okay?”

  I reached to her head and lifted it from the mattress by tugging sharply on her hair. Her eyes were shut. I couldn’t tell if she looked dead or simply fast asleep.

  “Fuck!”

  I dropped her and she face-planted back onto the mattress.

  “Seriously. Funny. You got me. Man, I didn’t realise black skin meant a black sense of humour to boot.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Hey, cunt! Quit fucking about.”

  Still nothing.

  “This isn’t funny,” I said. I pulled the condom off and tossed it to the floor. I half expected her to start laughing but there was nothing. She wasn’t moving in the slightest. Had I really broken her?

  My mind started firing in a million different directions.

  What have I done? What do I do? Do I call someone? They’ll send me to prison. Sure she’s black and no one really gives a fuck about black people but there’s still some weird cunts out there who’d call this murder instead of ‘doing society a favour’. I can’t go to prison. Not with a face like this. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This can’t be happening.

  Well it is. You’ve gone and done it this time.

  I could tell them it was an accident.

  You accidentally smashed her in the back of the head during sex?

  They don’t need to know it was a donkey punch.

  I might get a like-minded officer? They might see the funny side?

  Doubtful.

  What would your mother say?

  “Put your cock in me and make mumma proud!” is what she’d say. Now isn’t the time to think about that. Get out of my head, mum.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Call your psychiatrist.

  And say what?

  “Hey, it’s me. Just thought you should know… Totally just killed a black person. Doesn’t count as a real murder, does it?” I could say that?

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  What’s the big deal? You always wanted to know what it would be like to kill someone.

  And now you know.

  I wanted to know what it was like to kill someone, yes. But I also wanted to be able to get away with it.

  Who said you didn’t? She’s black. No one will come looking.

  The agency knows she is here. They sent her. When she doesn’t get back in touch with them, or start answering the phone - this will be the first place they come to look. They’ll come with the police and pictures of the hooker. They’ll be asking if I saw her.

  You could deny it.

  Yes. I could. But she could have checked in with them before knocking on my door and then I’ll look even more guilty. They’ll be all up in my face asking why I lied.

  Well then - you’re fucked but then, if you think about it, you’ll be fucked if you call them.

  They’ll be more lenient on me if I admit it and say it was an accident.

  You’re in the care of a psychiatrist and you’re known to have anger issues. You probably, at some point, discussed your feelings for people such as this tramp too… They won’t be lenient. Just admit you’re fucked and brace yourself. Better yet - learn to walk with eyes in the back of your head and an arse clenched so tight nothing can get through. Or simply deny she ever came here. Even if she did check in before knocking on your door - something could have happened to her between the call and the door. They aren’t to say it didn’t. Get rid of the body, make sure you get rid of all trace of her being here and hope for the best. It’s your only option and you know it.

  I can’t just get rid of the body.

  Sure you can.

  How?

  Take it out back and burn it? Fucking thing looks half burned anyway if you think about it. Charred skin and all that. Drag her out, put her in the garden, pour on petrol and ignite. Hell - reminds me of the joke - how do you make a cat go ‘woof’?

  Petrol and match.

  You know it makes sense. You call them, you’re fucked anyway. If they come here and end up linking you to the disappearance… You lose nothing. Nothing to lose, everything to gain.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Or you could just stand there, dripping the last of your cum onto your already dirty carpet with your dick going soft. Soft like you.

  Okay. I’ll do it.

  Do what?

  I’ll get rid of the body. Fuck it. Why not? If I call them, they will never believe it was an accident. If I don’t call them and they come looking for her, if I do a good enough job of getting rid of her they might believe me and leave me be. If they don’t… Well I go to jail anyway. Nothing to lose and everything to gain. But I’m not sure about the petrol and match. Whether she looks chargrilled already is by the by. I start making stinking fires in my garden, I’m going to start raising eyebrows from the people living nearby. Especially if they happen to look out of the window and see me with the lighter in hand and the dead body in the grass. Definitely no to an impromptu fire but I do believe the best place for her, in the end, is the garden. I could dig a hole for her and drop her in it. Maybe make a nice flowerbed over the top of her? A sign of respect? Who gives a fuck about the small details? The important thing - for now - is to get her in the ground and get this place cleaned up before people come looking for her. Worry about the little details later. First things first… Clean up duty.

  5.

  I was standing in the garage in nothing but my slippers. I should feel cold considering the lack of clothes and the draught coming in through a crack in the rear window, facing the garden, but I don’t. Maybe it has something to do with the adrenaline surging through my body at the moment at what I had accidentally done to the whore?

  I was looking at my work bench. Various tools are lined up neatly. Most of them have never been used before. I only purchased them because I felt it was the ‘right’ thing to do. Every man has tools in his home, right? The funny thing is, when I was purchasing them, I was imagining using them for different reasons to what they were initially designed for. An axe was purchased with the thought of burying it into someone’s skull. The razor-sharp hacksaw was purchased with the thought of cutting through flesh and bone, dismembering a victim. A hammer was purchased because I thought it served Peter Sutcliffe well back in his reign of terror. None of the things I had bought that manic day had been pictured being used in what one might call Do-It-Yourself. I even told my psychiatrist this. She didn’t say anything at the time but she did start frantically scribbling down in her notepad. By the end of that particular session, she spoke of increasing my medication dosage. I, of course, told her that was fine but I never bothered. The more I saw her, the more I spoke, the more I looked at people outside of my small social network of ‘just me’ - I came to realise that there is nothing to say these people are right and I am in the wrong. For all we know, I am the sane one and it’s everyone else who has a serious case of the ‘fuck-ups’. Until I can be proven wrong, I’m happy to play along with the meetings but the medication is surplus to requirements.

  I had brought a gym bag down from upstairs with me. Again, a bag supposedly meant for use at the gym yet had never even been inside one. When I bought it, I imagined how many body parts I could fit into it and thought it was an essential purchase. I set it on the workbench and started loading various tools of the psycho’s trade into it; a hacksaw, some heavy-duty black sacks, my trusty hammer on the off-chance anything needed flattening down a little. The cleaning equipment, such as the bleach and mops, could wait until I had finished the first job. Get it down and then come back down to the kitchen to get those bits. Ca
n’t exactly carry everything in one hit although there’s a small part of me which suggests it might be a good idea to make several trips just for the sake of having everything needed in the same room. Less chance of spreading unwanted DNA further around the house.

  Damned DNA. It would probably make sense to do what needs to be done and then just burn the house down anyway. I’d like to see them pick out the DNA from the charred remains of a broken home. I could worry about somewhere to live afterwards.

  No. That’s stupid. Just do a good enough job to ensure no trace is left behind. You don’t need to burn your house down.

  With the bag loaded with the tools I thought I’d need, I lifted it from the workbench and returned upstairs to where the hooker lay dead. I stopped in the bedroom doorway and looked at her. Am I supposed to feel guilt? I kind of feel as though I have done the world a favour. Is that wrong? I guess my psychiatrist would have an answer for me. She’d no doubt try and make me think how the woman’s family might feel about her death but, I don’t know… Do monkeys have feelings? I’ve watched many nature documentaries and I don’t reckon they think exactly like humans, despite what some people say. I reckon her family will be fine with it. If they’re still alive. Like I said, they carry the Ebola and HIV gene. Chances are they died a long time ago. Yeah. That’s why I don’t feel guilty. I don’t feel guilty because I know her family are already dead from whatever plague-like illness killed them, or maybe it was lack of clean water? I’ve done the girl a favour. She is with them now in whatever Heaven these things believe in. That makes sense.

  I smiled to myself. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy my arse. Trying to change the way I feel, it’s bullshit. I solved this one all by myself and - straight away - I feel better for it.

  I walked into the room and set the bag down to the side of the bed. I lifted the girl’s head from the mattress once more and looked at her. I’m not sure what I expected but I kind of thought she might have been a little less black - you know, because of the whole ‘dead thing’. When white folk die, from what I have seen in films and documentaries, they look pale but… Nope. She still looks black as night. Not quite cold yet either. Would that be because of the sun though? I remember something from school, not that I went often, where black absorbs heat better. Maybe she has retained some of what she absorbed from the sun? That would make sense. I’m sure - in time - if left alone she would get cooler. Still smells like shit though.

  I reached into the bag and pulled out the black sacks. A large roll of over eighty apparently and I’m most likely to use them all now. I started unrolling the bags, without tearing them from each other. I placed them on the floor, in long lines. When one section of the carpet was covered from wall to wall, I tore the bags and started unrolling more for another line; the idea being to cover the entire floorspace, protecting it from splatters of blood and gore.

  I know it would make more sense to drag the girl from the bedroom and through to the bathroom where the floor would be easier to clean but - goddamn if she doesn’t look heavy. Can’t move that! At least not by myself.

  I continued lining the floor with black sacks until the entire space was covered. It wasn’t the best of jobs but it was better than nothing. I tossed the remaining bags to the corner of the room, not that there were many left, and turned my attention to the dead hooker.

  Jesus, it’s not like it was even that hard of a hit. These people are used to fucking coconuts dropping from the trees onto their heads. I thought, over time, their colour evolved thicker skulls? Evolution to better their odds of survival? Unless they lost it again when they started shipping themselves all over the world in various banana crates. To think, some people are worried about finding poisonous spiders in their shop purchased banana bunches… I’d be worried about finding a black person. Harder to kill than unwanted spiders. Bigger pest. Actually - thinking about it - perhaps they’re not harder to kill than spiders? This one was pretty simple. Unless she was ill already? Quite possible.

  I walked back over to my bag of tricks and peered in. There it was, the hacksaw. I’ve been waiting so long to do something like this. The first thought I’d had when buying it. How easy would it cut through flesh and bone? Only one way to find out, I guess.

  With a shaking hand I reached into the bag and gripped the hacksaw’s metal handle. It feels cold. I pulled it from the bag and held it up. So damned sharp. I can’t see it having a problem cutting through flesh and bone. It’s not as though I bought the cheapest one I could find. I reckon it will last the distance.

  I looked towards the body, trying to decide on where best to start. Maybe the arm joints as they’re thinner and - therefore - not as hard to cut through? But then maybe I should slice the bigger bits? The thighs? The necks? After all - it won’t be good if I start with the smaller bits and find the blade dulls meaning I can’t cut the bigger bits. Okay then, start at the thighs. Thighs and then the head and then the arms. If the blade is still okay after that - I can cut the pieces smaller still. I nodded to myself. Sounds like a plan, Stan.

  With the hacksaw in one hand, I reached out with my other hand and took the girl by the ankle. I pulled her leg away from the other in order to give myself a little room to move the saw back and fourth. The impatient man within me wondered where I could move the two legs together and saw through both as though they were one but it didn’t take long for the sensible side of me to realise it was a stupid idea. What was that saying people used to say to me? Slow and steady wins the race? Something like that. Something mentally retarded. The one who wins the race is the one with the biggest engine. We all know that. We’ve all seen the film ‘The Fast and the Furious’. If slow and steady won the race, they’d have given Vin a Skoda or Smart Car instead of the American Muscle Cars he was constantly driving.

  Quit delaying and get on with it.

  I placed the cold teeth of the saw against the hooker’s leg and applied a little light pressure, preparing myself to start hacking away. I knew the blood was going to go over the duvet but - seeing as she’d already pissed on it - I didn’t think it would hurt. Damned thing is going to have to be binned regardless.

  My heart was racing as sweat started to come through on my forehead. I feel nervous for what I am about to do. Why I do not know. I’ve been looking forward to trying this for so long that I would have thought I’d have felt excited. Being stupid. I am sure, once the first cut is done, the excitement will start to flow through me. I just need to make the first incision.

  I lifted the hacksaw off a moment and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. Jesus. What is wrong with me? It’s not as though she’s a real person. Just a hooker. Another dead hooker. She isn’t the first and she won’t be the last. They knew the dangers when they took on this role. The more clients they see, the more they potentially meet a murderer. Okay then… No more pissing about. Let’s get this done so I can finish up and watch some television; put this whole shitty day behind me.

  I set the blade back against her right hand thigh and…

  She coughed.

  I jumped.

  What the fuck?

  She lifted her head from the mattress.

  What the fuck?

  “What happened?”

  Thinking quickly I tossed the hacksaw under the bed, and kicked the bag under too. Slowly the hooker lifted herself from the bed and rolled onto her back. She lifted a hand to the back of her head and started rubbing it.

  “What happened?” she asked again.

  You didn’t check for a pulse? Surely before you do anything that should have been the first thing you look for! A fucking pulse!

  I didn’t think. I panicked.

  No shit.

  “You passed out,” I told her. “One minute we were there going at it, I was about to ejaculate, and then suddenly you said you didn’t feel good and - bam - out for the count. You had me worried,” I lied hoping she’d buy into it.

  “I don’t feel very good.”

  A hit on the head
would do that.

  “You don’t look too good either. Can I get you a drink of water?” I hadn’t binned the mug she used earlier so it wouldn’t have been a problem to fetch her a drink if required. Considering the near death encounter she had, seemed only fair.

  “What’s with all the black bags?” she asked looking to the floor.

  “We’d agreed on water-sports,” I told her. Water-sports, also known as golden showers, are when either partner pisses on the other for sexual gratification.

  “We did?”

  I nodded. She looked dazed and confused. I actually think I have a good chance at getting away with all of this. Although, rather annoyingly, now there is a small part of me that regrets not being able to cut her into tiny pieces and bury her in the garden during the dead of night.

  “We did,” I reassure her, “but then you passed out and did it over the bedding anyway.”

  “I did? Oh my God I’m so sorry,” she said.

  She climbed up from the bed and looked back at the mess she’d earlier created as though she didn’t believe my word as it was. She raised her hand to her mouth, in shock, and started to cry from embarrassment.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it, these things happen!” I reassured her. I put an arm around her and held her tight. That was about as much comfort as I could provide. I’m not sure whether it made her feel any better. All I knew was that I’d be washing with bleach as soon as she left anyway. “Did you want a shower?” I offered her.

  “What time is it?” she asked, suddenly panicked. “My driver will be wondering where I am if we have gone over the hour.”

  Her driver? Then it was a good thing I hadn’t killed her! I’d be busy cutting her up only for some butch man to come a knocking on my door? Jesus. That would have been disastrous! Harder to deny something when you’re caught in the act.

  “Where are my clothes?”

  I had accidentally buried her clothes in bin-liners. I’d been in a hurry to get things started and couldn’t be bothered to move them immediately. I figured they weren’t going anywhere and that I could move them afterwards…